Gold and Dross
by carmesdi
Summary: Decades after SFN2 - On the way back from her and Nikola's latest mission, Helen reflects on the significance of tiny pieces of metal... (One shot)


**Just wrapped up a two-week intensive program (11+ hour/day)! This story is inspired by one of the people I met there. For some reason, it came to me in first person, and it just didn't feel right to change it to third; I hope that's all right. (NOTE: NOT cannon with Lab 327. I swear, I will get around to writing the next chapters for that and PoT)**

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It took years for me to ask.

Well, decades, really, since you and I… I still don't have the right words for it. Since you decided to stay, and I decided to trust you. Not with my life, I've always trusted you on that count, but with everything else – my work, my home, and my family.

But still, it's been years since I decided to ask.

You weren't going to. Hundreds of years can't and won't erase my memories of the first time you were in the room when a man offered me a ring, and then later when I ripped it off my hand in utter despair. I think a small part of you was sure I'd say no simply because there was no logical reason to say yes. What was the point? There was no legal or financial gain to be had. If it had been crucial for a mission, it would have been superficial; it would just be something that could be changed in the files of our fake identities on the surface as easily as blood type.

Most people see it as a sign to the rest of the world that the person is "taken", but I felt no need to, as you once put it, "stake my claim." We have never doubted each other's commitment, and it is impossible for anyone who meets us to miss it, or so I've been told.

But there was something more to your hesitation, wasn't there?

A small part of you was ashamed. Ashamed to care about such a silly little thing that couldn't, shouldn't matter to either of us. It was an impulse we should've "risen" above so long ago, like everything else we've rejected from our time.

I know how you felt because I felts so too. Why do you think it took so long for me to work up the courage to do it? As you so love reminding me, courage is one thing I never lack for; when you're upset with me it becomes one of my few faults, though even then you never become too frustrated.

I felt like a fool for caring about such a simple thing, but I asked anyways because I couldn't deny how much it mattered to me.

It took you months to say yes, but not because you were nervous. I haven't seen you be nervous in a century or more. No, it was because of something far simpler.

In the entire history of mankind no one man has spent so long thinking about the design of a ring.

I should've known better, really. You would not let it go until it was perfect.

It's easy enough to find a gorgeous ring, but you wanted one I would never have cause to remove, ever.

Diamonds were far too traditional for both our tastes, and pearls were never really your thing, were they, Nikola?

Other gems were quickly ruled out as well. They draw too much attention in the wrong neighborhoods (where I often am) and I'd hate to blow my cover on the surface by getting into a scuffle with some two-bit muggers.

Silver tarnishes over time, so at the end of the day, we were left with a set of gold bands, which we both found somewhat dull.

They didn't last very long, did they? Within the year, I had traded mine away for supplies during that incident in Nepal, and you used yours to short out the alarm system of that SCIU base where you and Henry were captured. (For the second time, I might add. You two never learn.)

We realized that as much as we both cared for the symbolism, neither of us could actually be trusted to look after an object that, to be honest, was completely replaceable. So we came up with something better.

It was Garris, of all people, who suggested it. Well, he suggested deliberate scarring, since it's a practice done by many of the tribes who lived in the outskirts of Praxis. Both of us heal too quickly for that; the only way to maintain a scar would be to continually inflict the wound, which would mean constant, although minimal, pain.

(I suppose if we were having this discussion, you would make a snarky comment about that being the definition of marriage.)

Instead, we realized that the only thing that wouldn't be healed was something laced with our own vampiric blood, so I found a way to mix it with tattoo ink.

It's funny, most people think our "rings" are identical; they "see, but don't observe", as James was so fond of saying.

Your left ring finger marks you as a Magnus now, a thought that always makes me smile. The infinity symbol, the unofficial family crest, loops again and again around your finger. You called me a "Daddy's girl" in Bhalasaam; well, it's true. What John and I found in the ruins of Praxis means little; I have been wrong about my father's condition before.

I have a secret fantasy that one day, when I'm out on a mission; Father will show up on our doorstep. He'll act like it's nothing unusual, and you'll be on your best behavior because even centuries later he's one of the only men whose good opinion you've ever wanted, and been denied. He'll push your buttons, and you'll become exasperated and throw up your hands in dismay, and then his eyes will noticed the discoloration on your finger, and he will understand in an instant. He'll make a crack about you not asking him for my hand, and you'll say something biting, or maybe admit that I was the one who asked.

I'll come home to the two of you chatting away over tea, or perhaps brandy.

I can't wait for that day.

My finger, on the other hand (some pun intended), is decorated with the number 3, swirling and twisting back upon itself. You've never really told me how that obsession of yours came about; I'm sure I'll hear the story eventually. I know what it means to you though, the beauty and complexity of the entire physical universe, which you so carefully marked on my skin. I wanted to hold my breath, not out of anxiety, but so that I could watch you work completely undisturbed. You were so graceful, as you always are, not a movement wasted.

Of course, we still wear those metal bands, but that's a whole separate matter. It quickly became a game, trying to think of what to hide in the knockoff pieces of metal we wear over our real rings. The obvious first step was a GPS tracker in the fake sapphire of my first ring, which, I must admit, it was rather beautiful.

I'm rather proud of the ring I gave you for your 200th birthday. It was no small feat, rigging it into a Morse code transmitter. I wonder how many people realized, as you twisted your ring during staff meetings, that it wasn't a habit of boredom but an attempt to distract me with enticing messages.

You know, I can't help but remember William's comments on the matter. (He will always be "William" when we discuss him, won't he?) He used to joke that he dreaded the years your ring was made of palladium. He worried that if he ever denied you the necessary resources for your lab, you would end up breaking down your ring into usable scrap. He wasn't concerned for the ring, but rather for the fact that I would blame him, and not you, for the loss.

He was probably right, though he never tested the matter.

Now we're recovering from our latest adventure, another run in with the latest batch of Red List smugglers, and you're sitting next to me in the transport pod, unusually quiet. You had no choice, Nikola; we were surrounded and out of bullets. With your abilities, any scrap of magnetic metal becomes one of our most valuable weapons.

(We both know you learned that trick from X-Men.)

Anyways, I'm simply glad I added that strip of iron into your latest version.

It's all right, Nikola, really. Your next ring is already made and waiting for us back home. I was going to give it you for Christmas, but now I suppose I'll have to hand over that lovely bottle of Le Fiate I've been hoarding since I found it three years ago.

You keep passing your left thumb of your ring finger. I honestly can't tell if you realize you're doing it. You've gotten used to that weight on your finger, haven't you?

In a few minutes, I'll take your hand, or perhaps you'll reach out for mine and our fingers will interlock. Will it feel different for me because it's not there? I'm not sure.

We won't say anything about it when we finally arrive at home. It's possible no one else will notice. We'll go back to our rooms, and you'll pour two glasses of wine while I retrieve the small box I have hidden in the pocket of one of my old trench coats.

I'll hand it to you, and you'll open the box and slip it on your finger without a second of hesitation. You'll let out the quietest of sighs, and we'll sit down on the sofa and sip our wine. We'll talk about the mission and the newest intake, tomorrow's schedule and your latest invention.

We won't talk about "it", not because of a sense of regret or loss or proper etiquette, but because it simply doesn't matter.

It was just a piece of metal, after all.

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**A/N: It took forever to post because of the title. I'm still not satisfied with it, so let me know if you have any ideas.**

**Basically, I've always become obsessed with the mundane minutiae of a story - I realized a while ago that it would be almost impossible for Magnus to wear a wedding ring, and it was an issue that bugged me for ages.**

**And, for the record, they didn't have a ceremony. Neither saw any point to it. It took Will two weeks to notice - Nikola suggested he should be fired for incompetence.**


End file.
